The Meeting Of Sherlock Holmes
by triforcelegends8
Summary: A written collage of main characters in the show of when they met Sherlock or a special time in Sherlock's life revealed. Other Characters: DI Greg Lestrade, Victor Trevor, Molly Hooper, Mummy Holmes, Daddy Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, Mike Stamford, James Moriarty, John Watson, Irene Adler, Mary Morstan.
1. (Still) The Addict

Meeting Greg Lestrade was the second best thing that has ever happened to Sherlock.

TMOFSH- Greg Lestrade- Still The Addict

Greg Lestrade was walking briskly down the sidewalk of London's busy, crowded city Greg Lestrade was walking briskly down the sidewalk of London's busy city wearing a black suit with a grey tie and comfortable, yet stylish shoes. His faded, dark-tan trench coat hung heavy on his broad shoulders, protecting him somewhat from the absolutely freezing weather. He could feel his ears stinging and could see his breath as puffs of vapor in the air.

Having just received a call of a public disturbance caused by someone who was possibly under the influence of drugs, Lestrade left his office gladly. He had been cooped up in the small room for the whole day and was going to use any excuse to leave- even if that meant dealing with a junkie. He sighed and ran his hand through his short, greying hair and roughly shoved his other hand in his coat pocket. He hated dealing with rowdy blokes who were using. Not only were they unpredictable, but they had no control of their own strength, making them more than a disturbance.

He walked in front of an alley way and glanced into its entrance. Sitting next to a pile of trash and a stack of soggy boxes was a slender man wearing worn, black trousers and a torn white t-shirt with his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his legs. He had a scruff of a beard and greasy, curly black hair, which almost fell to his shoulders.

Lestrade halted at the edge of the alley way entrance and, resting his hands at his sides, walked over to the slender man. He saw the man turn his head toward the DI, stiffen slightly, and turn back away from Lestrade.

"Afternoon," Lestrade greeted politely with his hands of his hips as he stood in front of the man. There was no response. Lestrade sighed and glanced around the alley quickly. "Will you stand up for me?" Lestrade asked after a few moments of silence. The man only folded into himself even more, trying to disappear into the stack of boxes he was sitting next to.

Lestrade pulled out his badge and informed the man that he was, in fact, a policeman. "Detective Inspector Lestrade. Why don't you go ahead and stand up for me?" he ordered as he put the badge away. The man complied, keeping his head low.

The man was tall. And saying he was tall was an understatement. Lestrade thought himself above average height, yet this man was towering above him. He was also very lanky, but some would say he was unhealthily skinny. With his lack of muscle and fat, he appeared to be smaller than the DI, even though he stood tall like a giant.

"Where were you just a few minutes ago?" Lestrade asked as he bent down slightly to try and look into the man's eyes.

After a brief hesitation, the man answered quietly, "… Here."

"'Course you were," Lestrade mumbled. "What's your name?"

"… Sher- Shezza," the man replied softly.

"Mmhm… Why don't you tell me your real name? I'm sure I can go ask the store owner…"

Lestrade heard the man huff under his breath and then heard the strong reply of, "Sherlock."

"Well, Sherlock," Lestrade said as he smiled, "I got a call from the store owner down the street from here telling me you were causing quite the disturbance. Is that true?"

"What do you consider a disturbance?" the man asked lowly, his head still down.

"Well, according to the store owner, you were yelling, throwing items at the customers, and saying vulgar insults to anyone who walked by. Care to tell me if that's true or not?"

Sherlock slowly lifted his head and glanced at the DI before saying, "I never yelled or threw anything, no."

"And the insults?" Lestrade questioned with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock shook his head and chuckled. "You can't arrest people for insulting others."

"True," Lestrade agreed, "but you can be arrested for drug use."

Sherlock opened his mouth and took a breath in, but said nothing. He turned his head to the side, away from the DI.

"Have anything to say?" Lestrade asked with a frown. He guessed that Sherlock was looking for an escape right about now and might run at any time. Lestrade dropped his hands from his hips and let them hang loosely at his sides, ready to grab the man if need be, and widened his stance if he needed to jump into a chase quickly. "Sherlock," Lestrade warned.

Suddenly Sherlock snapped his head up to the DI and silver blue-green eyes met light grey ones. "You work at Scotland Yard. You obtained your detective inspector position a mere 2 months ago, possibly after saving the life a comrades and proving reliable in all chases time and time again. You're having problems with your wife, most likely because you know she's up to something, probably an affair. You're right handed, you ate take-out for lunch," Sherlock took a sniff of the air and continued, "from Taki's. You—" Sherlock cut off when Lestrade held up a hand and wore a bewildered expression.

"How did you know… How did you guess all that?" Lestrade asked incredulously.

"I didn't guess. I saw," Sherlock replied confidently.

Lestrade shook his head, enthralled with this man's seemingly magical abilities. "How though?"

"I deduced it from you."

"And? What do you mean by that?"

Sherlock sighed then took in a deep breath and launched into his simple explanation, so the DI would understand easily. When he was finished, Lestrade's eyes were wide with disbelief and somewhat adoration. "That's…" Lestrade uttered after a few minutes of appalled silence, "quite a gift you've got there." Sherlock said nothing.

Lestrade could guess at why the store owner called the Yard. If Sherlock was using his gift in the way he did the Lestrade, it could be viewed as offensive or rude. If he was rolling off his 'deductions' to everyone he saw in the store… It would be _quite_ the disturbance. Lestrade was actually surprised at himself that he didn't arrest Sherlock out of spite for stating that his wife was cheating on him. He suddenly felt pity for the man. He knew all drug users used for one reason or another, and maybe this man's reason was because he was tormented and shunned for using his gift.

"Wrong," Sherlock said loudly and flippantly, snapping the DI out of his thoughts.

"Sorry?" Lestrade asked, confused.

"I don't use because I'm 'sad' no one cares for my deductions. Wrong." After he spoke, Sherlock instantly regretted even opening his mouth. He just confirmed he used. He didn't confirm _what_ he used, just that he used, and that would be enough for the DI to take him down to the Yard and get a drug test done on him.

Lestrade sighed and scratched his head roughly. "I wish you didn't admit that… You know I'll have to take you down to the Yard now, don't you?"

Sherlock nodded solemnly, his lips a thin line. Lestrade stared at Sherlock for a few seconds before asking, "What were you using?"

"Heroin," Sherlock replied softly.

Lestrade sighed tiredly and shook his head slowly. "How long you been using?"

"Does it matter?"

"No, I guess not," Lestrade replied, his eyes not focused on anything, his mind preoccupied on what his gut was telling him to do. "Ever been to rehab?"

"No. I don't need to go. I'm not addicted." Sherlock said, a bit defensively.

"But that's just what the addict would say, isn't it?"

"It's also what someone would say if they aren't addicted," Sherlock retorted.

A silence ensued in which Lestrade took the time to think about what to do with this man and Sherlock took the time to deduce what he thought the DI would do with him. Sherlock didn't want to go to jail. He knew he could get out of being thrown in jail, only after much kissing up to his government-position-holding older brother, but he didn't want to rely on his brother to keep out of trouble. Once Mycroft found out that Sherlock was using, he refused to let him in on any cases whatsoever. Sherlock didn't even use enough to actually get high, just enough to give himself a slight buzz. But Mycroft didn't see it that way. He so averse to drug-users and drugs themselves that he refused to help Sherlock at all until he was off the drug.

It's not like the cases Mycroft gave him were that stimulating anyways. He'd rather use heroin than deal with his older brother's boring governmental problems. All Sherlock was doing for him was his job. Mycroft was capable, yet lazy. Laziness seemed to run in the family.

Yet, there was only so much time Sherlock would have before he ran out of money. And then what? Would he resort to stealing money? Mugging people? Would he end up killing someone to get his next fix? He wasn't lying to Lestrade when he said he wasn't addicted. At least not physically. Psychologically though… That was another story. Sherlock knew he would never be able to deal with people or the lack of mental stimulation and heroin provided that easily. All he had to do was find a dealer or a second-hand dealer, give them the money, find a secluded place, and use. It was much easier than going out and persuading people to let him see this murder case or that break-in. Sherlock was becoming desperate and he knew it. Lestrade seemed to be his guardian angel for the time being, come to save him from destroying himself.

Sherlock swallowed past the pride stuck in his throat and spoke. "How often do cases you receive go unsolved?"

Lestrade raised his head to Sherlock and furrowed his brows. "What?"

"How often do—"

"No, heard you. I mean… why? Why do you care?" Lestrade asked, crossing his arms across his chest.

"I… My brain needs to be active almost all the time. That's why I use. It stimulates my mind. Before they found out, I would solve cases for someone, who I won't name, and it would provide the minimum stimulation I needed. But now they- they've cut me off. I… I'm asking…" Sherlock paused and cursed the world for forcing him to say these next few words, "I'm _begging_ you- let me solve any cases you and your team can't."

Once Sherlock was finished with his speech, the two men stood in silence for what felt like hours to Sherlock. He anxiously awaited DI Lestrade's answer and hoped he would choose to let Sherlock see and solve any cases they had.

After a few more moments of eerie silence, Lestrade finally spoke, "You know you can't join to Yard if you've used before, right?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly. "I'm not asking to join the Yard. I'm asking to solve cases. Think of me as a private detective, but for only the Yard."

Lestrade furrowed his brows in confusion. It took him a few minutes to finally realize what Sherlock meant, and when he did his brows shot up past his hairline. "You're saying- let you see the details of the case and the crime scenes and the bodies and test results- all so you can keep from doing drugs?"

Sherlock swallowed, afraid Lestrade would refuse him and then take him to jail. "I- yes. But I wouldn't tell anyone and it would help keep crime down and criminals locked up in the long run, and isn't that what you really want?"

"You are aware that letting civilians in to see cases is… well not _illegal_, per say, but it's… more a golden rule in the Yard. Understand?" Lestrade stated firmly.

"I do. And no one will find out. And if they do… I have connections and your job would never be in jeopardy. I- Please," Sherlock begged, pleading even more intensely with his eyes. He was just about ready to get on his hands and knees and grovel to this man to let him in on cases. Almost, but not quite.

"And what makes you think you can solve the cases we can't?"

"Oh, please," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "I was able to deduce your entire life of the past few months just from looking at you. Don't you think I would be able to do the same with crime scenes? Be able to deduce how tall a person is, their gait, their build- all from just two footprints?"

Lestrade folded his arms, feeling quite avers to the whole idea of letting in some… some _junkie_ in to look at and- possibly- solve cases. "I don't know…" Lestrade mumbled as he scratched his head.

"Just give me a chance. Let me prove to you that I can solve any unsolved case you have or any new case you're having trouble with. _Please_."

Lestrade looked at Sherlock- really looked at him. He didn't appear to be lying or trying to deceive him. There really wasn't any reason why he would ask to solve cases other than to solve the cases for the hell of it- unless he was a reporter, which didn't seem that likely. The gleam in his eyes was hopeful and earnest, and his face was contorted into a painful expression of fear.

After a few more moment's contemplation Lestrade sighed and granted Sherlock's wish. "Alright," he said lowly.

Sherlock's eyes widened and he was about to jump for joy when he thought of how odd that would seem to Lestrade, and Sherlock didn't need to give the man any reasons to think him crazy. "I- DO you have any now?"

"Yeah, but I'm not letting you onto a crime scene or anywhere near evidence like _that_," Lestrade said pointing to Sherlock's clothes and fanning an invisible smell away from his face. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

That day, Sherlock solve not only the current murder case the Yard had, but long-forgotten serial, robbery, and rape cases. The number of cases he solved totaled to 22. Since his mind had been on a vacation of sorts and he was still being affected by the heroin in his system, he was able to solve them lightning fast. He was grateful to Lestrade. He knew he was and that he owed Lestrade as much as he could give- possibly even his life. From then on, Lestrade let Sherlock see, solve, deduce and do whatever else he did to find the solution to cases. Meeting Lestrade was the second best thing that has ever happened to Sherlock.


	2. My Sweet, Peaceful Dream

The Meeting Of Sherlock Holmes- Victor Trevor- My Sweet, Peaceful Dream

The first time Sherlock Holmes had sex was when he was in uni. His pure virginity was taken by a dashing, dark-haired man named Victor Trevor.

Victor was a 23-year old, tall, raven-haired, slender man, much like Sherlock. Victor was alike to Sherlock in many ways, both physically and mentally. It was hard for Sherlock to find a match for his intellect, so when he met Victor and found his more than capable of having an intelligent conversation, he immediately took a liking to him.

They had met in French class. Sherlock had taken it simply because it was the only language he had failed to learn in time in high school. Sherlock had already seated himself in the middle of the desks and had his hands in his steeple position, his eyes closed. Victor walked in and scoped the room for someone to sit by. When his eyes landed on a head of dark, curly hair and the side of a pale, narrow face, he confidently walked over to Sherlock and sat right down next to him. Sherlock opened one eye, merely acknowledging the stranger's presence, deduced him quietly, and shut his eye again, staying silent. Victor was sitting in his chair sideways, one arm propped up on the side and the other resting in his lap, smiling at Sherlock.

After a few moments of tense silence, Victor spoke, "Name's Victor Trevor. What's yours?"

Sherlock opened one eye again and stared at the man before answering firmly, "Sherlock Holmes. And what was the name of the student you were with five minutes earlier in the bathroom? Oh, or was it a teacher?"

Victor froze a moment before chuckling and saying, "Is it that obvious? Oh, well. What about you? You with anybody?" he asked, being obvious for what he was really asking.

"Yes. No," Sherlock replied, answering both questions at once.

"How did you know? Did you see us or something?" Victor asked, shifting in his chair and tilting his head to the side a little.

"I didn't see either of you. I saw the information on you," Sherlock corrected firmly.

"What, is it written on my forehead?" Victor joked. Sherlock didn't laugh. "Okay, okay. How did you see it on me?" he asked as he looked down at his clothes, inspecting them for anything incriminating on them. He didn't see any obvious signs. When Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed, Victor looked at his clothes harder, broadening his mind. "it was my clothes? And hair? Right?" he questioned.

Sherlock opened his eyes a fraction and raised one brow. "And?" he probed.

Victor stared at Sherlock for a second, relishing in the fact that he had this beautiful man's attention, before glancing back down at his clothes. "The dirt and dust, wasn't it? From the bathroom?" he said, gesturing to his clothes.

"Sherl9ock widened his eyes in surprise and reared his head back slightly. "Yes, actually."

Victor narrowed his eyes. "But how did you _know_?"

"I live at the dorms and attend college here. Why wouldn't I know the bits and pieces that make up my school?" he replied with a dismissive tone.

"You live at the dorms?" Victor asked curiously.

"... Yes," he answered hesitantly.

"You wanna head over there…?" Victor suggested. Sherlock knew what he was really asking.

"I—uh—I have class," he stuttered and blushed, averting his eyes to the space on his desk beneath his arms.

"We won't be gone long," Victor purred, sliding his hand on Sherlock's leg. His breath caught as the man's hand squeezed his thigh and his thumb rubbed a circle on his leg.

It's not like people never touched him, he just didn't react like this. Usually, Sherlock though the person below him, ignorant, and dull. But this man—Victor—was none of those things. He was obviously smart—smart enough to be able to follow Sherlock's trail of deductions. And Sherlock had to admit—it was a bit of a turn on when someone showed they had intellect close to his own.

"W—what about class?" Sherlock asked, though Victor had already won him over.

"We'll be back before the bell rings," he said with a smile as he grabbed Sherlock's hand and led him out of the room.

The two men ended up having a major snogging session, only stopping when Sherlock jerked away from Victor's hand resting on his crotch. The two were left breathless and helplessly hard, each man having to take care of themselves as Sherlock wasn't ready to go any further.

However, after a month of dating, skipping classes and stopping snogging sessions short, Sherlock was finally ready.

They were snogging quite fiercely while lying on their sides on the bed in Sherlock's room. Since he lived alone in his room, they didn't have to worry about anyone walking in, but they locked the door just in case anyone got curious. They kept up their snogging for about 5 minutes before Sherlock tentatively gripped Victor's hips and rolled his own against the man's crotch. Sherlock and Victor both gasped and Sherlock shivered with pleasure. His member was fully hard through his trousers and he could feel Victor's hardness as well.

Victor silently, slowly reaching his hand into Sherlock's pants and firmly grasped the man's cock making his breath hitch painfully in his throat. He gave an experimental tug and smiled in satisfaction as Sherlock groaned. He pumped slowly and firmly, passing his thumb over Sherlock's tip whenever his hand travelled back up the man's shaft. Sherlock's head was laid back on a pillow, sprawled on his back with his legs parted. Victor was laying on his side, pumping Sherlock a bit faster, his pupils blown wide with lust and his cock hard and throbbing with need.

Sherlock groaned and gripped the other man's shoulder and gave a tight squeeze.

Victor slowed his pace, but didn't stop. "Something wrong?" he asked a little breathless.

"M—more," Sherlock grated out. He knew what he was asking and that Victor knew as well.

Victor stared at Sherlock for a moment then quickly divested himself of his shirt and pants. He leaned over to the chest of drawers by the bed and opened the top drawer, pulling out a bottle of lubrication.

Sherlock swallowed and said, "I—I don't have any. When did you bring that?"

"A few nights ago," Victor replied while setting the lube on the bed beside Sherlock. He locked eyes with him and crawled up close to Sherlock and slowly pulled his pants and trousers down and off his legs. Sherlock's red, throbbing erection sprung free and he whimpered. When the pathetic noise came out of his mouth, he quickly shut his eyes, trying to calm himself.

Victor took no time to try and calm the man himself and instead occupied himself with preparing his fingers for Sherlock.

"You ready?" he asked once his fingers were coated thickly with lube.

Sherlock nodded silently, eyes still shut and his hands on either side on him, clenching and unclenching in the sheets. Victor put his hand on the underside of Sherlock's thigh and pushed up, getting him into proper position. He used the hand that was coated with lube to push and probe at Sherlock's hole. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat and he felt his cheeks flush deeply. Never before had he been so exposed, so vulnerable, so _naked_ in front of anyone. Victor was his first for everything. And he would be the first to take his virginity. Victor relished Sherlock's embarrassment and pushed two fingers in to the knuckle.

Sherlock gasped as he clenched around Victor's fingers and curled his fingers into the sheets.

"Relax, Sherlock," Victor commanded lightly.

After a moment's pause, Sherlock let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding and relaxed his muscles around Victor's fingers.

"It—it burns…" Sherlock mumbled as he shifted from side to side.

"it's going to," Victor mumbled back flippantly. He focused on working his fingers in Sherlock, curling them, scissoring them, and trying to push them deeper into the man. Sherlock groaned and squirmed, tossing his head from side to side, resisting the urge to wank himself off lest he come.

Victor continued his ministrations, opening Sherlock up and loosening the ring of muscle inside him, preparing him for the moment that would finally come. He could feel the tight heat clenching and relaxing over and over again and noticed Sherlock became unusually quiet. He didn't ask what was wrong and instead angled his fingers and curled them down and imagined what it would be like to have his dick inside Sherlock as he clenched down roughly. The thought alone almost threw him over the edge.

Victor figured he had successfully hit the man's prostate when the man gasped and clenched down just like Victor imagined though a bit harder than before.

"Not yet, Sherlock,' Victor purred as he halted his movements and pulled his digits out, allowing the man a respite to calm down.

After a few minutes of panting, Sherlock spoke, "I—I need more."

"More?" Victor asked, his fingers stopping just short of Sherlock's entrance.

He nodded and shifted his hips from side to side, trying to replace the friction from before.

Victor's lips twitched in a half-smile before he snatched the bottle of lube off the bed, quickly opened it, and squeezed out a generous amount of the solution onto his hand. After having set the bottle down, Victor brought his hand to his member, slathering it with the lube in his palm. Sherlock watched with hazy eyes as the other man stroked himself until precome seeped out the slit of his head. Once satisfied with how well his cock was covered, Victor climbed over on top on Sherlock, situating his member between the man's legs.

Victor took no time to make sure Sherlock was ready this time and pushed forward. Tight, wet heat enveloped his cock making him moan and his whole body shudder. He hung his head between hs shoulders as he kept pushing forward, slowly filling Sherlock with him member. He groaned and shut his eyes to focus on not coming from the raw pleasure.

When Victor penetrated him, Sherlock's mouth opened into a wide 'O' shape and he brought his hands up to the man's shoulders, gripping them tight enough to leave bruises. As Victor pushed in further and further, Sherlock could feel the wall of muscle stretching in places the man's fingers just couldn't reach. He could feel how hard Victor was inside him, and how hot he was from tip to base.

Since he wasn't terribly long, Victor was soon buried to the hilt of his member inside Sherlock. Once used to the tight heat, Victor began to move inside the other man, filling him, stretching him, exciting him. They were moving slowly, leisurely at first, but soon Victor was pounding hard and fast into Sherlock as he moaned and gasped and writhed underneath Victor.

They were done quickly, neither man lasting longer than five to ten minutes. Victor and Sherlock were panting hard when they finished and collapsed over each other, mixing semen, sweat, and heat together.

"That was…" Sherlock started.

"Wonderful," Victor finished. They lay on top of each other and fell asleep after the post-coital bliss mellowed out. Silently and ever so quickly, Victor planted a kiss on Sherlock's forehead once he was asleep, quietly wishing him sweet, peaceful dreams.


	3. (Sort of) His First Kiss

TMOSH- Molly Hooper- (Sort of) His First Kiss

In all his 35 years of life, experiments, and wonders, Sherlock has not once kissed nor been kissed by a woman. And—he begrudgingly had to admit—he was rather curious. Though, it couldn't be much different from a man's kiss—could it? They were all lips. What could be the difference?

Looking from a scientific side, Sherlock could argue the point that male and female lips were the same—at least the chemicals that were roused by the action of kissing, at least. However, male and female lips were different, physically, and possibly mentally to the person kissing them. Female lips were generally softer, plusher, and had a smoother texture to them as opposed to male lips, which were normally firmer and stronger. That would mean that the kisses given by each sex had to be different—right? Or did the kiss differ from person to person? Most likely, but Sherlock was looking for differences of kissing between sex, not each and every person.

One thing was for certain though- Sherlock had to know.

Sherlock sat at the table inside his favourite room at Bart's, an untouched microscope in front of him. Unconsciously he began to touch, lick, and bite his lips while lost in thought, making them red and sensitive as his thoughts circled around lips, kissing, and men and women. His mind barely registered Molly Hooper walking in, going through a drawer, pulling out a folder with a few papers in it, and closing the drawer. With the file in hand, she turned to find Sherlock sitting stock still on a stool at the table. She stopped in his line of sight and the thought of trying to talk with him crossed her mind. When she saw how engrossed he was with his own thoughts, she shook her head and continued on her way towards the door leading out of the room.

When Sherlock finally realised Molly was in the room, he started suddenly and followed her figure with his eyes. Just as she was opening the door, Sherlock commanded loudly, "Wait."

Slightly startled, Molly jumped a bit and stopped in her tracks. "Yes? Do you—What is It, Sherlock?" she stuttered innocently.

When she stopped, Sherlock bolted from his stool and strode quickly to where Molly was standing. He stood tall above her, simply staring down at her eyes, making no movements other than blinking his eyes and raising and lowering his chest as he breathed. He swallowed loudly and continued staring.

After a few more moments of awkward silence, Molly spoke, "Is something that matter, Sherlock?" She was sincerely concerned and lowered her head to get a better look at Sherlock's face, looking for any signs of sickness or otherwise.

"No," he answered deeply. He was definitely contemplating something, Molly knew, but what it was she had no idea.

Slowly, Sherlock gripped the folder Molly was holding, tugged on it, persuading her to let go, and set it on the cold metal counter beside them. He then brought his hands up to clasp her upper arms, lowering his head at a sideways angle towards her head at the same time. His head continued to lower until his lips were just hovering above hers, his breath slow, steady, and smooth. While Sherlock's breath was controlled, Molly's was erratic. She was breathing as quickly as a deer would when it knows its life will soon end. Her quick, uneven breaths blew across Sherlock's mouth and she closed her mouth to keep from breathing so heavily on him. He didn't seem to notice nor care, his attention completely focused on holding them both still. They froze, neither breathing now, and stayed frozen for what was only seconds but seemed like ages.

Finally, Sherlock moved forward, their lips meeting suddenly. Molly jolted and made a _squeak_ noise in the back of her throat, muffled by Sherlock's lips. She could feel how large and soft Sherlock's lips were, the texture not much different than her own. The smoothness of his lips against the smoothness of her own felt like thin velvet brushing across her mouth, by all means there, but not quite graspable.

It was over in less than a second. Molly felt Sherlock's lips tense up right before he pulled away and immediately she began thinking of all of what she just did wrong. She began to panic. Sherlock, who was still analyzing the kiss, or rather how it made him feel and affected him, did not notice Molly's presence and panic until she mumbled "Um… Sherlock?"

Sherlock shook his head, scattering his thoughts and focusing on the present. "Apologies. Just an experiment," he said quickly with a smile, oblivious to Molly's internal problems.

He turned away from Molly, leaving the poor woman stunned beyond comparison. When he said 'just and experiment', Molly could feel a sharp pang in her chest. She stood completely stunned for a few moments after Sherlock turned away, feeling too used and hurt to move. Her brows creased together and she could feel all the pent up anger at Sherlock bubbling up in her chest. He vision became blurred with angry tears and her muscles bgean to tense up.

Distantly, she heard Sherlock sigh, the stool scrape across the floor, and the man's footsteps quickly near her. "Molly," his voice said. Molly looked up at Sherlock, the tears still in her eyes, refusing to spill. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "I shouldn't have used you like that."

Molly mustered up enough calmness to choke out in a shuddering voice, "No, you shouldn't have."

Sherlock pursed his lips and sighed, annoyed. "Is there—what can I do?"

"For what?" Molly asked, finally calming down enough to think logically.

"To repay you." Sherlock stated as if Molly was being particularly dense.

She didn't even have to think more than one second about what she wanted him to do. "Go to lunch with me this week."

Sherlock blinked a few times. "What?" This time, Molly looked at him like he was being dense.

"You have to go to lunch with me, you have to at least _look_ like you're enjoying it and…" She thought a moment. Her eyes widened when she came upon the last requirement. "And _you_ have to pay."

Sherlock stared wide-eyed at Molly before dropping his head and sighing in defeat. "Fine," he mumbled.

Molly smiled half-devilishly, half-innocently. She had to admit, she was rather excited Sherlock agreed to her stipulations, even though he said he would pay her back. She stood smiling at him like an idiot for a few moments and wiped the smile off her face when Sherlock spoke again.

"When?" he asked mournfully, head still lowered slightly.

"Whatever day suits you best," Molly replied while cocking her head to match Sherlock's position with a gentle smile.

"Tomorrow," Sherlock immediately said.

"Eleven?"

"…Sure."

And with that, Sherlock and Molly had planned their 'date' (as Molly would call it) or 'death sentence' (as Sherlock would call it).

The date/death sentence went fine and Sherlock was actually able to learn a few new things about Molly he hadn't bothered to learn before. For example, she had three cats at home, but because she was such a germophobe, she always made sure she didn't have any blemishes or cat fur on her outfit. Sherlock would have never known, based on the (lack of) evidence. She also had a sick grandmother who was in Bart's hospital care and had been for almost a year. Sherlock didn't bother to ask what she had. He thought it might upset her and he didn't want to deal with a crying woman in public—too personal.

When they were finished with lunch, Sherlock actually stayed a few more minutes to chat with Molly, telling her about a recent case, about Lestrade being dull again, and his current experiments, that he might or might not need a certain person's help with. He smiled at her and winked, watching her smile softly in return. He stood from his chair at the table and bid her farewell.

He had to admit—kissing a woman wasn't bad at all.


	4. I Still Love You

TMOSH- Mummy Holmes- I Still Love You

Mummy Holmes has never been more disappointed in Sherlock than she was now.

Sherlock stood facing his mother, head down in shame, arms tight and parallel against his body, and his hands clenched in fists in frustration. She could be so _dense_ at times. She wasn't even listening to him, or seeing the bruises on his own body. That boy attacked _him_. Sherlock would never do something like that, and Mummy knew that. She was only believing what she saw at the end, and not every other piece of evidence that was there. Sherlock hated that she had to be so dense sometimes.

"William, are you listening to me?" she demanded.

"Don't call me that. And yes," Sherlock replied with a terse tone.

"Don't get snappy with me. Do you know what you'll have to put up with now? Now that you've made it known you can fight? We gave you those lessons for _defense_. Not for you to use just because someone is speaking inappropriately to you. I can't believe this…" she sighed, putting a hand to her forehead.

He looked up at his mother. "But I wasn't! He attacked me and then—"

"I don't want to hear it, William!" she yelled. '

Sherlock shut his mouth quickly and looked down again. "But, Mummy, I—"

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, what did I just tell you?" Mummy Holmes seethed.

Sherlock was quiet. He didn't say a word as Mummy took him by the arm and led him to his room. She stopped when they were both inside with the door shut and began to scold him more.

"Do you regret it?" she asked, letting go of him when she led him over to the bed to sit down.

Sherlock thought for a moment and shook his head.

Mummy shook her head in disbelief and said, "Do you know how disappointed I am in you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock began to tear up. Not only did she use the name she knew he would respond better to, but she said she was _disappointed_ in him. She was never disappointed in him. Even if she was, she would never, _never_ admit it to him. His lip quivered and he brought his hands into a relaxed ball in his lap. He shook his head slowly.

Mummy sighed, shook her head once more, and left. She slammed the door loudly behind her, as if the amount of sound she could produce was on par with her level of disappointment. Once Sherlock knew she was far enough away, he burst into tears, the salty drops spilling from his eyes and falling down his reddened face. His nose began to snot, his throat became sore from sobbing, and his eyes burned from the constant tears spilling from them. He rolled over onto his side and brought his hands up to his face, as if he could hide from his shame.

She was right. He shouldn't have done anything. She hated him now. It was all over her face. She _hated_ him. Maybe if he had let that kid beat him up, this wouldn't be happening right now. He didn't want to disappoint her. That was one of the only things he aimed for in life, and he failed. He failed so horribly, he could barely breathe knowing he failed.

After thirty minutes of sobbing, wailing, and crying, Sherlock quieted down. After a few minutes, he was asleep, his 14-year-old body unable to stay awake after such an exhausting crying session any longer. Mere seconds after he was asleep, Mummy walked in.

She sat down carefully beside him and began to pet his curly hair behind his ear. "Oh, Sherlock," she uttered, "I still love you, Sherlock." With that, she planted a kiss on his cheek, got up, and left.

Already deep within his dreams, Sherlock's conscious mind registered nothing of what just transpired. His dreaming mind, however, responded. The love from Mummy Holmes crept into his dreams and he smiled.


End file.
